


Clinging to the Dead

by RoseoftheBrightSea



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, The Halls of Mandos - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 06:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15624222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseoftheBrightSea/pseuds/RoseoftheBrightSea
Summary: Acting on Fingolfin's pleas, Finarfin visits Fëanor in the Halls of Mandos and considers taking guardianship of the former crown prince.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've rewritten this at least twenty times, I kid you not, and I'm still unsatisfied. The original drafts were fluffy. Every subsequent draft grew in angst.
> 
> (Warning: not for the "Fëanor did no wrong" crowd).

Finarfin knew that he was a fool. A wiser man would have stayed in Tirion, with his wife and children, and ignored Fingolfin’s pleas. They were expanding the left wing of the palace. Finarfni knew he should be there to oversee the construction, not wasting his time with illusions and madmen.

Still, he had to admit, the illusion _was_ beautiful. The sky was sunless but bright and dotted with white, feathery clouds. Stretching out to the horizons was a sea of smooth, pale petals. Some were swept up by the wind and twirled about like ribbons, leaving the scent of flowers to hang in the air. Finarfin wondered how the ground still felt solid beneath his feet. 

“This looks more like Yavanna’s realm,” Finarfin muttered under his breath.

Námo grunted. He stood a few feet to Finarfin’s side, with his arms clasped behind his back and his chin tilted up.

“Irmo had a hand in this place,” he explained. “His influence is what allows your presence here.”

_A neutral ground for the dreaming and the dead,_ Finarfin thought, admiring the strange, dancing petals at his feet. No doubt, Irmo exerted a greater influence over the appearance of the place. Námo was far too fond of dark colors.

“Do the other rooms look like this?” Finarfin asked.

Room was the wrong word, but Finarfin wasn’t sure what the right one would be. The dead weren’t housed in the physical realm, although they were somehow contained within the Halls of Mandos. Míriel tried explaining it to him once, but most of the information had slipped past Finarfin’s understanding. He knew the dead dwelt within intricate illusions, though, and that _fëa_ could somehow replicate the _hröa_ ’s senses. 

“No, most are…” Námo hesitated, “More complicated than this. The rooms’ manifestations are tied to their occupants. This place is more stable." 

Finarfin nodded, suspecting that Doomsman would say little more on the subject. The questions were merely a distraction from the task at hand, anyhow. Finarfin stretched his arms out and hummed.

“We should start, I suppose.”

“Very well. Remember, I will surveil the conversation. When you are finished, simply say so and I will return you to the physical realm,” Námo said. “The details of this will remain confidential. Regardless of your decision, Fëanáro will not remember what was said here, as a precaution against your visitation being made public.”

“I cannot thank you enough for this opportunity, my lord,” Finarfin said. “I am sure my brother would wish to express his gratitude, as well.” 

Námo’s pale eyes flickered across the king. Finarfin could not fault his apprehension. His own stomach fluttered wildly with unease. 

“The burdens of the dead should not weigh so heavily on the living,” Námo said in a voice so soft, Finarfin leaned closer just to hear it. “I am sorry, Noldóran.”

“It is not your fault.”

“Others might disagree.” It was neither a refutation nor a cry for pity, merely a statement of fact, so Finarfin gave no reply. “Are you ready?”

Finarfin swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Námo tilted his head in acknowledgement. His image began to ripple, then blur beyond recognition. As the Vala slipped entirely from view, Finarfin heard him whisper, “Good luck, Arafinwë Finwion.”

_The burdens of the dead_ … Finarfin mulled over Námo’s words. His mind drifted to the Secondborn. _Does Ilúvatar’s Gift give them freedom, or do they cling just as tightly?_

Finarfin was struck by a sudden flash of jealousy. He knew it was useless. The mortals were plagued with their own fears and burdens, the likes of which he could scarcely comprehend. Still, the jealousy remained. It burned even stronger when Finarfin thought of the Peredhil. Shame nipped at his conscious for envying their choice.

The wind picked up behind him and Finarfin steeled his nerves, pushing aside all thoughts of Men. A curtain of petals rose, twirling too quickly for Finarfin’s eyes to follow. Irmo always did have a flair for the dramatic.

They finally fell to the ground. Fëanor stepped forward, his silver-blue eyes surveying the landscape, clearly unimpressed. At last, they settled on Finarfin. He smiled thinly. 

“Well, isn’t this a surprise?”

The last time Finarfin laid eyes on his brother, Fëanor had been clad in blood-smeared steel, his hair a wild, untamed mess. He had seemed so enormous then, like he could cast a shadow over the entire world. Now, dressed in a plain tunic and loose trousers, Fëanor’s smile looked like that of a cocky new recruit, not the madman from Finarfin’s nightmares.

“Hello, Fëanáro."

“What are you doing here?” Fëanor asked firmly.

“Nolofinwë has asked that you be released into my custody,” Finarfin explained. Vairë was supposed to have informed Fëanor of the reason behind Finarfin’s visit, but there was little point in arguing.

Fëanor lifted an immaculate eyebrow. “And the corpse collector agreed to that?”

“He is waiting for my decision,” Finarfin said. “I question the wisdom behind Nolofinwë’s request.”

Fëanor laughed. It was not the airy laugh he used at court, the one from Finarfin’s childhood, but a deep, barking sound. “Never was a son so poorly named, eh?”

Finarfin smiled in spite of himself. He had thought the same thing a dozen times on the way to Mandos, and countless more times in the previous weeks of Fingolfin’s badgering.

“You look well,” Finarfin said.

“I cannot say the same of you.” Fëanor nodded at Finarfin’s hands. “What happened there?”

Finarfin looked down, suddenly aware of how much time had passed since they last saw each other. Scars decorated both of his hands, the fine lines turned white with age. They might have looked distinguished if it weren’t for the awkward stumps. The last two fingers were missing from Finarfin’s right hand. He flexed his hand so Fëanor could get a better look.

“They’re somewhere under the Great Sea, rolling across the sands. Although some fish might have eaten them by now.” Fingolfin was always so terribly offended by that joke, but Fëanor did not seem to mind. “I lost them in the War of Wrath. An orc got in a lucky swing.”

“An orc?” Fëanor sniffed.

“It was rather inconvenient, but I think I managed quite well, considering I was without the Light of the Two Trees,” Finarfin said. He did not miss the way Fëanor’s jaw tensed. “Besides, it serves as a wonderful excuse to avoid paperwork.”

The phantom fingers still ached whenever Finarfin spoke of them. He cracked his fingers in an attempt to chase away the pain.

“Paperwork…” Fëanor repeated. “I was surprised to hear Nolofinwë has let you stay as king.”

“He has been far too focused on releasing you from Mandos to pose any threat.” Finarfin sighed and shook his head. “He loves you, brother. Ever since his re-embodiment, he had thought only of your well-being.”

“He wants me trapped under your thumb and by extension, his,” Fëanor snapped. “That is not love.”

“You led the first slaughter against our own kin,” Finarfin reminded him. “You swore an Oath to kill innocents.”

“You led the first slaughter against our own kin,” Finarfin reminded him. “You swore an Oath to kill innocents.”

“Not innocents. Thieves,” Fëanor sneered, then ran a hand across his hair in frustration. “Alqualondë was unfortunate, but you will not lay that at my feet. If the Teleri had done as I said, no blood would have been shed.”

“And if Atar had stood aside when Morgoth came for the Silmarils, he might still be alive. Does that justify his murder?”

Fëanor’s lips pulled back in a snarl and he took a step forward, trying to grab Finarfin’s robe at the collar. The cloth gave way to mist, throwing Fëanor off balance. Finarfin took a step back and watched as his brother stumbled to his knees. Fëanor remained on the ground. His fists were clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white.

“You _dare_ compare me to that vile cretin?” Fëanor growled. “That is our father’s death you speak of. Have you no shame?”

“Plenty,” Finarfin said. He sat on the ground, arm’s length away from Fëanor. “I admit, this is going poorer than I expected.”

“What did you expect then?” Fëanor spat. “Why bother coming here if you only meant to insult me?”

Finarfin considered the question carefully. He had not wanted to come in the first place, thinking it an exercise in futility, yet he still came. Eru save him from himself.

“Because I am a fool,” Finarfin whispered. He cleared his throat, then spoke in a firmer tone. “I wanted to believe that you had changed, brother.”

Fëanor laughed bitterly. “A man’s nature does not change." 

“It can if he wills it to,” Finarfin said.

“If he wills it to? Eru be damned Arafinwë, has the crown addled your mind? This world rarely offers us the luxury of choice.”

Finarfin gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply. He gripped his knees to keep his hands from trembling, but that made the ache in his phantom fingers worse. A dull throb crept up his forearm. Finarfin found the physical pain a welcome distraction.

_Not physical_ , a small part of him whispered. There was no physical pain in Mandos. It was his mind’s own doing, a small reminder of what he had lost.

“Did you have a choice?” Finarfin flinched as his voice cracked on the last word. “At Alqualonë, did you have a choice?”

Fëanor was silent for a long moment. 

“No." 

“Did they have a choice?”

He waited. A gust of wind brushed petals up against his cheek, carrying away a stray tear as they flittered across the field. Fëanor opened his mouth once, then clenched his jaw and looked away.

“Fine, it does not matter,” Finarfin said, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Just tell me what you want, Fëanáro.”

Fëanor blinked twice in surprise. He hesitated, as if certain this was some trap. Caution did not suit Fëanor, however.

“Freedom,” Fëanor said at last. “To live under no man’s law but my own.”

“The outside world is one that must be shared. I do not know how to change that.”

“Then you cannot help me,” Fëanor declared.

“So be it.”

Finarfin stood and brushed off his robes. Fëanor kept his gaze on the horizon, refusing to acknowledge his brother’s departure. Finarfin sighed.

“I pray you find peace, brother. I am sorry I cannot give it to you.”

_I am finished here_.

The petals began to pop into mist. Fëanor’s image blurred, then slipped out of reach. The mist swirled around Finarfin, slowly solidifying into dark stone and flickering green light. When the last of it settled, Finarfin was standing in the middle of Námo’s throne room.

The Doomsman sat on the elevated dais. He leaned to one side of his throne, chin resting against his open palm. Those pale eyes sought out Finarfin’s.

“Fëanor cannot be released from the halls,” Finarfin croaked. He rested his head against a column. It throbbed mercilessly, an unfortunate side-effect of travel through Námo’s realm. “Do you have something to drink?”

Námo waved a hand to the corner of the room. Finarfin found then tumbler and poured himself a large glass of the amber liquid. It was stronger than he was used to, but he drank it down without complaint.

_Fingolfin will have my head for this_.

Finarfin poured himself another glass.


	2. Chapter 2

Fingolfin trembled with anger. He tried to still his hands, but they demanded he move them, lest they turn destructive. Fingolfin paced Finarfin’s study, unable to believe what he had heard.

 “You refused?” he repeated in disbelief. “How? Why?”

“It was my decision to make,” Finarfin said quietly.

“Yes, but—” Fingolfin clenched his jaw.

Finarfin was supposed to _understand_. Finarfin was not just Fëanor’s brother, he was his king. He had an obligation to ensure Fëanor’s safety, yet he had declined. He had refused to exercise his familial and kingly duties. Perhaps others might not understand, but they were not Fëanor’s kin. Finarfin had no such excuse.

“He needs us,” Fingolfin said.

“No, he doesn’t.” How could Finarfin sound so cold? Where happy little boy, always chasing Fingolfin, begging to play with him? “He hasn’t changed, brother.” 

Fingolfin slammed his fist against the wall, scraping his knuckles against the stone. Finarfin rose in alarm, but Fingolfin waved him away. He did not trust himself to be too close to Finarfin, not after what he had just been told.

“He can change with our help,” Fingolfin insisted. “Fëanáro needs to be with those who love him, not trapped away in some prison.”

Finarfin leaned back in his chair and threw his arms up. “Even if that were true, I do not have the time to watch his every move. Fëanáro cannot be trusted on his own.”

“Then let me watch over him,” Fingolfin said. He took the chair opposite from Finarfin’s desk and leaned forward, bouncing his leg anxiously as he spoke. “We’ll go to the countryside, somewhere far from the public eye. I won’t let him near Olwë’s people. Even with just five men, I could keep him under constant watch. That would give him the opportunity to change!”

Finarfin looked to the side, not meeting his eyes. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then repeated the process.

“He is our brother!” Fingolfin shouted. His voice was too loud, he knew. Half the palace could probably hear his screams. Fingolfin found he didn’t care. “Have you no shame?”

A pained expression flashed across Finarfin’s face, disappearing before Fingolfin could place exactly what it was.

“I have made my decision,” Finarfin said firmly. 

“You can unmake it,” Fingolfin snapped. “Do you hate him that much? He has done wrong by you, yes, but do you really hate your own blood that much?” 

“Would it be so wrong if I did? Am I not entitled to form my own opinions, or must I parrot yours?” Finarfin squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “I did not mean that. I am sorry, Nolo, I did not mean that. I do not hate Fëanáro. Ilúvatar knows how much easier this would be if I did.” 

Fingolfin grunted. His mind racing far too quickly to discern if there was any truth to Finarfin’s claim. He would save Fëanor. It would be hard without Finarfin’s aid, but not impossible. Perhaps Míriel or Nerdanel would lend their support in his next petition to Manwë. Mahtan’s voice would carry great weight, as well, although the great smith had not responded to his last few letters. Fingolfin wondered if he could court support from any of the Ainur. Aulë might hear him out, though Yavanna’s influence might present a complication. Olórin spoke highly of Fëanor, did he not?

A knock came at the door, cutting off Fingolfin’s thoughts. Fingolfin stared at Finarfin, waiting for him to dismiss the intruder. To his surprise, the king ordered them to enter, shooting Fingolfin a silent warning to keep his mouth shut. Fingolfin did not have time to consider disobeying.

Eärwen and a servant entered, their faces pale. Eärwen rushed into the room and grasped Finarfin’s arm.

“There’s been a collapse,” she said, breathless. “One of the stoneworkers got trapped beneath the rubble. His leg…” Eärwen swallowed hard, unable to finish her sentence.

“A collapse?” Finarfin asked. The servant nodded anxiously, little beads of sweat collecting on his forehead.

Fingolfin frowned, unsure how he could have failed to hear a collapse. Had he been that absorbed in his own thoughts?

Finarfin gave Fingolfin an apologetic look, but Fingolfin nodded. However furious he was, the stoneworker’s needs came first. He could not fault Finarfin for cutting their conversation short. Later, when the worker was seen to and the debris was cleared, Fingolfin would return to the subject.

Finarfin smiled weakly, then followed the servant from the room. Fingolfin went to follow, but a hand on his arm held him back. With surprise, Fingolfin looked back at Eärwen. She did not meet his eyes. Instead, she waited until Finarfin and the servant were half-way down the hall, then went to the study door and closed it. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Fingolfin demanded. “If someone’s hurt, I should—”

Eärwen cut him off. “No one is hurt.”

“But you just said…” Fingolfin stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Did Arafinwë put you up to this?”

“Of course not,” Eärwen snapped. She walked back to Fingolfin’s side. “I imagine he’ll be furious when he realizes I’ve lied, but I need to speak with you.”

Fingolfin growled quietly in frustration as Eärwen hopped on top of the desk and crossed her legs. She was a casual woman. Fingolfin had mistaken it for flippancy when he first met the woman, and though he could appreciate her calm demeanor better now, he was losing patience. It was another pointless distraction. 

“You could have waited,” Fingolfin said, barely keeping his tone even.

Eärwen shook her head, silver curls bouncing. “You know I love you, yes, Nolo? That I think of you as my brother.”

“Yes,” Finarfin said slowly.

“My love for you is not just through Ara or Anairë,” Eärwen continued. “You are a good man, with a good heart.”

“What is your point, Eärwen?”

Eärwen frowned, then folded her hands in her lap and sighed. “You are a terrible brother, Nolofinwë Finwion.”

“I… What?”

“You are a terrible brother,” she repeated. “Oh, my husband would never say so, not even to himself. He adores you. Truly, Ara thinks the world of you. And I have no doubt you love him, too. Stop pouting, Nolo, you’re not a child. I am not saying this to be cruel.”

“Then why are you saying it?” Fingolfin demanded.

“Because you don’t seem to realize that you have two brothers, not just one,” Eärwen said. Her blue-green eyes shimmered with a protectiveness Fingolfin hadn’t seen since her children were small. “I know you love Fëanáro, but while you pursued one brother’s love, another sought out yours.”

Fingolfin balled his hands into fists and took a step back, as if the distance might put an end to Eärwen’s tirade. “You do not know what you are speaking of.”

Eärwen cocked her head to one side, raising both eyebrows in apparent disbelief. He remembered the scar, then. The one just above her right eye. It was a thin, silver line, stretching from the outer corner of her eye to the middle of her eyebrow. Elegant, almost. And it had almost cost Eärwen her vision. He still hadn’t asked who gave it to her. Was it one of his men or one of Fëanor’s? Did it matter?

A small part of Fingolfin was terrified by another possibility. Could he, swinging wildly in his desperation to find Fëanor, have given her that wound? Was it possible he might not have recognized her in the Darkening, surrounded by chaos on all sides? Fingolfin’s blood went cold at the thought.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

Eärwen’s glare softened mildly. She slid off the desk and turned her back to Fingolfin, walking toward the study door.

“I never understood why the singers speak of love as if it were a unified whole,” Eärwen said, pausing in the doorway. “It’s a fragmented thing, isn’t it?" 

“It is,” Fingolfin agreed.

“I’m not telling you to stop loving Fëanáro. I know you wouldn’t listen. Just…” she hesitated, then sighed. “You two sisters and a brother, Nolo. Do not lose sight of them.”

Fingolfin watched as Eärwen pulled open the door and disappeared down the hallway. He did not move to shut the door. He couldn’t even find his way to a chair. Instead, Fingolfin stood in the middle of Finarfin’s study, slowly letting the strength seep from his legs.

When Finarfin returned, Fingolfin was on the floor, leaning against the wall and staring at the carpet. He tried to smile.

“Are you alright?” Finarfin asked, kneeling in front of him.

“No,” Fingolfin admitted. He eyed the dirt on Finarfin’s robes. “The stoneworker is alright, then?” 

“Yúlo wouldn’t stop apologizing,” Finarfin said, smiling wistfully. “I don’t know what Eärwen had on him, but it must be rather awful.”

Fingolfin suddenly wrapped his arms around Finarfin and hugged him close, trying to keep his sobs from escaping his throat. He did not want Finarfin to see him cry. Finarfin shifted awkwardly in Fingolfin’s embrace, then relaxed and patted his back gently.

“I love you,” Fingolfin said. “I’m sorry, Ara. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Finarfin furrowed his brow. “Nolo?”

“It’s fine,” Fingolfin insisted, pulling back and wiping at his eyes.

Finarfin regarded him skeptically, but Fingolfin managed to find his feet, however unsteady they were. Fingolfin thought again of the little boy, desperate for his brother’s attention, and of the grown prince he’d spent hours in conference with. How often had their conversations turned to Fëanor? Guilt gnawed at Fingolfin’s stomach.

_Would I undermine one brother for another?_ Fingolfin wondered.

_Yes,_ something deep inside of him whispered. He had done so before. He had already started his plans to do so again. Fingolfin was prepared undermine Finarfin’s authority as Noldóran, if that was what it took to free Fëanor from Mandos.

“You don’t trust me to watch Fëanáro in your stead,” Fingolfin realized aloud. “Do you?”

Finarfin’s shoulders sagged as he shook his head. “No.”

Fingolfin nodded. It hurt to hear the words out loud, even if he had expected them.

“Promise me this, brother. Do not lose hope on Fëanáro’s ability to change. When the day comes that you think… If. If the day comes that you think he has it within him to change, give him that chance.”

“I will.”

Fingolfin managed a small smile. “And Ara?”

“Yes?" 

“Don’t give up on me, either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, don't let me write things. I just make myself sad about people accidentally hurting others with their good intentions.


End file.
